Roadside Crosses

glance of curiosity at the professor.
    The agent-in-charge hung up. “They made the connection, the press did. He’s now the ‘Roadside Cross Killer.’ ”
    BrittanyM . . .
    Dance said, “Charles, this is Professor Jonathan Boling. He’s been helping us.”
    A hearty handshake. “Have you now? What area?”
    “Computers.”
    “That’s your profession? Consultant?” Overby let this hang like a balsa-wood glider over the trio for a moment. Dance spotted her cue and was about to say that Boling was volunteering his time when the professor said, “I teach mostly, but, yes, I do some consulting, Agent Overby. It’s really how I make most of my money. You know, academia pays next to nothing. But as a consultant I can charge up to three hundred an hour.”
    “Ah.” Overby looked stricken. “Per hour. Really?”
    Boling held a straight face for exactly the rightlength of time before adding, “But I get a real kick out of volunteering for free to help organizations like yours. So I’m tearing up my bill in your case.”
    Dance nearly had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Boling, she decided, could have been a good psychologist; he’d deduced Overby’s prissy frugality in ten seconds flat, defused it—and slipped in a joke. For her benefit, Dance noted—since she was the only member of the audience.
    “It’s getting hysterical, Kathryn. We’ve had a dozen reports of killers wandering around in backyards. A couple of people’ve already taken some shots at intruders, thinking it’s him. Oh, and there’ve been a couple more reports of crosses.”
    Dance was alarmed. “More?”
    Overby held up a hand. “They were all real memorials, apparently. Accidents that had happened in the past few weeks. None with prospective dates on them. But the press is all over it. Even Sacramento’s heard.” He nodded at the phone, presumably indicating a call from their boss—the director of the CBI. Possibly even his boss, the attorney general.
    “So where are we?”
    Dance brought him up to date on Travis, the incidents at his parents’ house, her take on the boy. “Definitely a person of interest.”
    “But you didn’t bring him in?” Overby asked.
    “No probable cause. Michael’s checking out some physical evidence right now to link him to the scene.”
    “And no other suspects?”
    “No.”
    “How the hell is a kid doing this, a kid riding around on a bicycle?”
    Dance pointed out that local gangs, centered primarily in and around Salinas, had terrorized people for years, and many of them had members much younger than Travis.
    Boling added, “And one thing we’ve found out about him. He’s very active in computer games. Young people who are good at them learn very sophisticated combat and evasion techniques. One of the things military recruiters always ask is how much the applicants game; everything else being equal they’d take a gamer over another kid any day.”
    Overby asked, “Motive?”
    Dance then explained to her boss that if Travis was the killer, his motive was probably revenge based on cyberbullying.
    “Cyberbullying,” Overby said, gravely. “I was just reading up on that.”
    “You were?” Dance asked.
    “Yep. There was a good article in USA Today last weekend.”
    “It’s become a popular topic,” Boling said. Did Dance detect slight dismay about the sources that informed the head of a regional office of the CBI?
    “That’s enough to turn him to violence?” Overby asked.
    Boling continued, nodding, “He’s being pushed over the edge. The postings and the rumors have spread. And it’s become physical bullying too. Somebody’s put up a YouTube video about him. They got him in a happy slap vid.”
    “A what?”
    “It’s a cyberbullying technique. Somebody came up to Travis at Burger King and pushed him. He stumbled—itwas embarrassing—and one of the other kids was waiting to record it on a cell phone. Then they uploaded it. It’s been viewed two hundred thousand times so far.”
    It was then that a slightly built, unsmiling man stepped out of the conference room across the hall and into the doorway of Overby’s office. He noted the visitors and ignored them.
    “Charles,” he said in a baritone.
    “Oh . . . Kathryn, this is Robert Harper,” Overby said. “From the AG’s office in San Francisco. Special Agent Dance.”
    The man walked into the room and shook her hand firmly, but kept a distance, as if she’d think he was coming